


A Spoonful of Sugar

by belmanoir



Category: Dresden Files (TV)
Genre: M/M, Snippets
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-04-09
Updated: 2012-04-09
Packaged: 2017-11-03 08:59:14
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 414
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/379600
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/belmanoir/pseuds/belmanoir
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Harry cleans his workshop.</p>
            </blockquote>





	A Spoonful of Sugar

**Author's Note:**

> Written for the "Dust" drabble challenge at the greatestjournal skull_boy_love comm.

"Bob," I grumble down at him from the top rung of my stepladder, "whatever spot I missed is invisible to the naked eye. I've dusted this shelf five times already!" I move the dust rag in my hand and a dead mouse falls to the floor, going through Bob like a tiny and disgusting golden comet and landing on the floor with a sick little thud/poof. "Oops."

Bob steps aside fastidiously and gives me an I-told-you-so smile. "A tidy workshop is essential to a successful wizard, Harry. Besides, breathing in all that dust is bad for your health."

"Come off it, Bob," I say cheerfully. "It's not like I'm going to live long enough to die of dust poisoning anyway."

There's silence from below. I glance down at Bob. His lips are pressed tightly together. After a moment he raises his eyebrows and says, "Just don't expect me to push your wheelchair when you're hooked up to that oxygen machine." He slides his hand through a table and smirks at me, but his expression is all off. I groan inwardly. It's an unspoken rule between me and Bob that we don't use the d-word. Not about me. Because, you know, I _am_ going to die someday. And Bob isn't.

"Fine," I say with exaggerated exasperation. "I'll even dust behind the books. But you know...after all this cleaning I'm going to need a shower." I waggle my eyebrows. "I'll expect company."

"You know I hate the sensation of all that water pouring through my essence," Bob grouses, but the look on his face shifts to speculative anyway. He's got a pretty good view of my ass from where he's standing---which I suspect is not a coincidence.

"You can stay mostly on the other side of the glass if you want," I say, and Bob beams. It doesn't really matter to me; I only need to touch his hand to feel the echo of his desire. At the thought I climb down the ladder and lean towards him, our foreheads overlapping the tiniest bit. I close my eyes for a moment and let Bob's affection wash over me.

" _Le Retour de Martin Guerre_ is showing on television tonight," Bob murmurs slyly. 

"Fine," I breathe, feeling equal even to a French chick flick. After a minute, I turn away and begin methodically removing all the books from their shelves. They _are_ pretty dusty. Bob hums a happy little tune, and I can't help smiling.


End file.
